


Wife Swap

by KirkyPet



Category: American Gods (TV), Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Could be platonic, Crossover, Gen, Podfic Welcome, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KirkyPet/pseuds/KirkyPet
Summary: That one there. War. Some fucking war goddess Sweeney didn’t recognise. Blacked-out eyes glaring round, an arm made of metal, clothes all over dust and grease and sweat of battle. No blood, but the promise of it. Who was she? Durga? Shit disguise if it was. Fuck, what did it matter who she was. He was done with this shit. He’d been looking for war and, by Bran, he would have it this day.“What have you done with the Dead Wife, bitch?”
Relationships: Furiosa & Max Rockatansky, Furiosa/Max Rockatansky, Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney
Comments: 20
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey, look at this stuff!” Laura called out, pausing at a dilapidated junk shop. Sweeney sauntered on for a few steps, recounting the more painful moments of his disastrous journey to the Big Easy, until he became aware of the empty space beside him.

“Aw _c’mon_ , we don’t have time for souvenirs. Feck's sake - ” he rolled his eyes and stepped closer. His eyes widened as spotted the _thing_ among the tat, saw Laura’s fingers reach out for it.

It _glowed_ -

_Oh fuck_

“Nonono, don’t touch that - !” he lurched forward, arm outstretched to stop her, but it was too late. Sweeney recoiled and squeezed his eyes shut as the shockwave rolled over him, making his ears hum uncomfortably. When it was over he _reluctantly_ opened an eye to see what fucked-up thing had just happened. Was this one of Samedi’s stupid tricks? Prick. It'd be just like him. He struggled to remember if he’d pissed the Baron off lately. Brigitte for sure, but this wasn’t her style.

Sweeney swallowed and looked around, trying to stay calm. He couldn't see her _anywhere._ No, this was bad. A wave of nausea hit him. He could feel it draining away. That relief of proximity he’d felt on seeing her again – to his _coin_ , not that fucking gremlin – it was going, fast. Worse than before, even. His lifeblood – his _luck_ – was bleeding out and he felt light-headed with the panic that rose like the wail of a banshee in his ears.

She was _gone_ , somewhere _else._ His dread turned to anger. This was not some Loa prank, as fucked up as they could be. This - this was Grimnir’s doing.

Bristling with rage, Sweeney scanned the passers-by for a culprit. It wouldn’t be the old cunt himself – he never got his hands dirty. It’d be another one of his goons – some sucker like himself with a debt to pay off.

_If they’d done her a hurt, there’d be hell to pay_

And there she was. The one in this picture whose face didn’t fit. Among the revellers, the drunks, the dancers, the parents who’d unwisely brought their spawn to Mardi Gras and were probably regretting it by now –

That one there. War. Some fucking _war goddess_ Sweeney didn’t recognise. Blacked-out eyes glaring round, an arm made of metal, clothes all over dust and grease and sweat of battle. No blood, but the promise of it. Who was she? Durga? Shit disguise if it was. Fuck, what did it matter _who_ she was. He was done with this shit. He’d been looking for war and, by Bran, he would have it this day. 

“What have you done with the Dead Wife, bitch?” he roared, advancing on her, the memories of old battles echoing in his ears. 

The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was a metal fist, approaching at speed.

*

He woke face-down in an alleyway, upsettingly close to the remains of someone’s supper, which was thankfully still recognisable and untainted with bile. This wasn’t an unfamiliar occurrence for Sweeney, but the weight of someone’s knees digging into his back and the unmistakeable sting of a knife-tip jabbing his neck were less common. And then he remembered why.

“What’ve you done with her, bitch?” he growled, at his antagonist, trying to twist his neck in an impossible angle to see who he was going to have to kill, or least beat the absolute shit out of. Once she’d got off of his fucking back.

“You’ll never get her back, schlanger!” she hissed in his ear.

“Fuck you!” he croaked, a little more carefully, feeling the sting as her knife broke the skin under his jaw. Any fight he had left in him was pretty much gone by now, anyway.

_Never getting her - it - back._

“Hasn’t he done enough?" he sighed. "Wasn't _killing_ her enough?” 

Silence. The woman's breathing slowed from what Sweeney realised had been hurried and - panicked?

When she spoke, her voice was lower, calmer-sounding. “What – what are you talking about?”

“Dead Wife. All my luck – is hers - " he wheezed, as her weight took its toll on his ribs. “You might as well kill me now. Without her, I’m as good as dead anyway.”

The woman let out a short and then a long breath, and the knife became less insistent. The weight on his back didn’t lessen though, and he struggled weakly in protest. She shifted her knees onto his arms, pinning him just as firmly but allowing him the luxury of being able to breathe.

“If you try anything, I will crush your skull. I don’t know anything about your Dead Wife. I – I thought you were talking about someone else.”

Sweeney's hopes flared in revived anger. “Where the _fuck_ did she go, then? She was just there, and then she was _gone!_ ”

“I don’t know – I don’t know where I am. _What is this place?”_

“You don’t work for Grimnir?” he asked, suspiciously.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Wotan?" he prompted. "The Allfather, Greybeard, The Hanged God - ?”

She made a confused sound.

“The Val-Father, Many-Shaped, _Wednesday_ \- _?_ ”

_“Stop! No! I don’t know these people!”_

Sweeney let out a long breath. “Let me up, then. I’m no enemy. We need to _talk._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

“Mad Sweeney! What you doin’ here? _Goddamn_ , brother, what'd you do to your face?”

“Fucking _Rambo_ here." Sweeney rolled his eyes towards the personification of impending violence glaring by his side. He beckoned Samedi closer. "Look, I need your help, there’s some seriously weird shit goin’ on in your town today. I’m missing a walking dead!” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “I was bringin’ her here for you to - ”

Brigitte flounced in, interrupting him. “Okay, _no_ – if that oversexed goat sent you, can just turn right around. The Ghede Loa will not be joining his fool war! Oh my – who’s this?”

She did a double-take at sight of the stranger, and immediately shot a glance at the Baron. _This one’s mine_ , it said. Sweeney rolled his eyes. Guess his story’ll just have to wait til Brigitte was done flirting. And she called _Grimnir_ oversexed?

“I feel like I should know you,” she sidled up to the woman. “But I don’t - ”

It wasn’t a question, but she let it hang until it was answered, and the way she looked at the newcomer made Sweeney the impression she was genuinely intrigued, rather than _just_ horny. The stranger looked surprised, but Brigitte had turned on the charm and the woman seemed to unclench a fraction.

“Furiosa. I’m Furiosa. Of the Free Citadel.”

*

As the woman spoke, Furiosa felt the tension and dread slip slowly away. She was surrounded by strangers in a strange place and she was afraid and _angry_ but it was like the woman was singing her into a strange and beguiling dream.

“’Mortan Furiosa,” she murmured, circling her. “That’s what they call you. War-Mother. Revered by many, feared by many. _Loved_ by many. You died. Revived by the power of _le vrai sang de l’amour_ \- ”

“WELL, AREN'T _YOU_ THE LUCKY ONE?”

\- and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Fukushima!” Furiosa muttered through gritted teeth.

She just about managed to stop herself from staving his smeg head in by counting to ten. But she figured she’d run out of numbers before she got away from this mothersforsaken feral. He was really getting on her nerves. He was mainly harmless, that much was clear, only concerned with getting this Deadwife back. He didn’t even seem to be _armed_ – she’d searched him for weapons before letting him get up. And all this business about him dying if he didn’t have his lucky coin - that sort of thing was normal enough for a feral. They’d get crazy ideas, no-one expected otherwise.

But still - she was enraged with herself for dropping her guard. getting so lulled by this strange woman’s musical voice. How long had this smeg been prowling behind her without her noticing? These people were messing with her head and that was not acceptable.

She took a deep breath and, turning slowly to glare at him, she growled, “You do _know_ I’ve killed men for less than that?”

Sweeney’s face split into that kamikrazy grin that wouldn’t look out of place on a War Boy. “Hah! You can’t kill me, I’m a leprechaun!”

_That word again!_

\- and Furiosa finally lost her temper.

 _“_ How many times - " she took a step forward, "I _don’t know what that is!”_

He winced and stepped back, looking more pained by that than being felled by a faceful of metal. She actually felt a pang of guilt, Mothers only knew why. She supposed he'd probably had as bad a day as she had. If Max had disappeared into thin air, she'd be pretty upset about it too.

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’ll ask. What _is_ a leprechaun?”

She knew she would regret asking.

*

“You people are – don’t take this the wrong way, but are there _lead mines_ around here?”

“What do lead mines have to do with anything?”

“I mean you’re crazy! You’re talking about gods like they’re real people. I mean – " she sighed, exasperated, " - people who _claim_ they’re gods, who get people to believe in them – fight for them, _die_ for them. _Those_ I know. Fakes and liars. But _you_ say you’ve lived for thousands of years, you’ve been a king and a _bird_ , you can make magic gold appear. And your friends here - ?" She sat back and folded her arms. "All I can say is, _that’s_ how Bullet Boys sound after a half-life in the lead mines.”

“They don’t call him Mad Sweeney for nothin’," the woman gave the _leprechaun_ a sympathetic look which had a fair dose of 'I told you so'. "But gods are only as real as their believers make them. They come and go. _You_ , ‘mortan Furiosa, - ”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“ _– you_ – you have believers enough to live long beyond your years. That’s how gods are _made_.”

A horrible thought occurred to her. It was ridiculous, she knew, and she was mildly concerned she was losing her mind slightly but it was that kind of conversation. She felt like Alice in that old story of Giddy’s. Talk too long to crazy people, you might find it rubbing off on you. _But what if she hadn’t really killed him? And what if_ she _herself would become like him?_

“Can they be killed?” she asked.

“Well, yeah - ” came the reluctant answer.

“Good,” Furiosa breathed.

*

The feral was still pacing petulantly about the room. He stopped and demanded, “Are you done? Can we get back to the point now? The Dead Wife is missing and _she_ is here. It doesn’t take a fuckin’ genius to suppose that the Dead Wife is where _she_ came from. She says there was this old market stall - ”

“I _can_ speak for myself, alright?” Furiosa glared at him. “We were in Bartertown, and - there was this old man selling Before time things I’d never seen before. Toys and things. I picked up a string of beads – they looked _new_ and – then I was here,” she sighed.

“What did the old man look like?” Brigitte asked, a world of meaning in her voice, and glanced at her huge black bird that'd been side-eyeing Furiosa ever since she got here. It began to edge towards the door, Furiosa couldn’t help but notice. Can a rooster look guilty?

She tore her eyes away from the shifty-looking bird. “Uh - he was smoking a pipe and wearing a red and black jacket. He had a dog - ?,” she offered, helplessly. 

"Yep - " the woman nodded resignedly.

“Bastard. I fuckin’ knew it. I will _eat_ you!” Sweeney declared, darting after the black rooster which flapped up onto a high shelf and ruffled its feathers defiantly.

“Papa Legba, you gotta set this right! D’ya hear me? Goddamned old troublemaker - ” Brigitte shook her head up at it and patted Furiosa on the shoulder. “Look on the bright side, baby. You’re at a crossroads and Legba will guide you on your way. We’ll go back to his shop first thing tomorrow and send you back to your man.”

 _I hope so_ , she thought. _I take it back._ _I take it all back. I want to go home._

Sweeney clearly shared her sentiments. “Fucker,” he spat, glaring up at the bird. “If the Dead Wife isn’t back here by lunchtime tomorrow, I’ll be lightin’ the barbeque myself!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes I know it’s Maman Brigitte who’s associated with a black rooster, while Papa Legba should be hanging round the place as a dog presumably   
> But it’s Terry Pratchett’s fault. I read his books during my formative years so Legba is a rooster in my head and probably always will be. I’m sorry


	3. Chapter 3

And it did beg the question, _back from where?_ Where had the Dead Wife gone _to?_

*

The war-woman told her story. Sweeney listened, clinging to the bare facts. It was somewhere hot, dry and where people were a bit crazier than they were here - by a narrow margin. And it was in the Future. The war-woman had been very emphatic that this had to be 'Before'. Or another fucking planet entirely.

Well, it was either space or time. Probably both. Either way, she wasn't here. Fucking Legba. 

Sweeney tried to think.

 _I mean, she’d probably fit right in, by the sounds of it._ He could just see the Dead Wife as one of these raging ferals. Or leading some bloodthirsty army into battle. She wouldn’t put up with any of that ‘breeder’ or ‘bloodbag’ shit, even if she was any good at either of them. Not having to eat or drink would be a plus, too. Decomposition, not so much. Deserts - they got really cold at night, didn't they?

“Wait – are you saying your friend is actually _dead?_ ” the war-woman demanded. Sweeney realised his inner musings hadn’t been quite as inner as he’d thought.

He stopped chewing on a thumbnail and looked up, irritated. “The fuck did you think I meant?”

“I thought it was just a _name_. I don’t know how Before-time names go!”

Sweeney tried it in his mind’s ear. Fair enough. “Yes, she is actually dead. As in - no heartbeat, no vital signs, apt to get smelly if left out the fridge for too long. Dead.”

“But - walking around - and - ” the war-woman trailed off, getting all tense again.

“And talking, yes. Plenty.”

The war-woman paused, a deepening crease in her blackened brow. Sweeney waited. He knew what was coming. People always got funny about that sort of thing.

“Does she _eat_ people? Eat their brains?”

 _There_ we go.

The Ghede Loa could glare like champions when they were pissed, especially if the lighting was right. Which it completely was. That old git of a Legba even paused in his strutting to give her the death-stare out of one beady eye.

To do her justice, she didn’t quail – much. But her accusatory tone became uncertain. “Isn’t that a thing?” she asked. “I thought that was a thing they did. In shows and things – ? The old ones always told stories about the living dead and how they’d groan and shuffle around – and if they _bit_ you - ”

“D’you hear this shit?” interrupted Samedi, turning to Brigitte and gesturing at the stranger. “Damn, woman, it’s hard enough to be _dead_ without everyone assuming you’re trying to eat them. Not cool, Future Woman. Not cool.”

“C’mon Baron. It’s not her fault. That fuckin’ George Romero, he’s the one you want to be mad at.”

Huffing, the war-woman sat back down and grumbled, “Well, it _better_ be safe. We have enough problems, that’s all I’m saying – don’t need _that_ on top of everything - ”

Sweeney thought for a moment and shook his head. “Nah. Your folks’ll be fine. Dead Wife doesn’t bite. She’d have tried it on me by now. She’s a horrible disgusting little gremlin and she can rip a man from limb to limb but – and this is important – only when they’re torturing her idiot husband, and – uh – lynching her idiot husband.” He beamed at the memory of a crowded moment on the road. “She swerves for bunnies! What else - ? I tried to kinda intimidate her a couple times and the worst she did was – uh – actually, is your man planning on having kids ever? Because that might not work out so well.”

At Furiosa’s dismayed face, he abridged with a dismissive wave of the hand. “ _Anyway_ , as long as your man’s not doing any harm to the idiot husband, he’ll probably survive. Your man’ll be fine.” He shrugged and added, as a final word, “She might irritate him to death.”

*

Sweeney considered leaning on the balcony railing but thought better of it. Knowing his luck, he’d crash right through and break both his legs. He sat on the floor instead and made another attempt at lighting up. He needed a smoke. Reason being, amongst others, was that Brigitte hadn’t given up trying to get into the war-woman’s knickers. It was getting a bit old.

“You sure do have a bit of god in you, ‘Mortan Furiosa,” Brigitte murmured, surveying the war-woman over her cigar.

_Oh fuck, not that weary old line. Ah, she was a trier, he’d give her that._

“I really don’t think I do,” the war-woman sighed.

“Well, maybe you’d like to?” she insinuated, giving a wink before sashaying away.

The war-woman narrowed her eyes and shot Sweeney a sidelong glance before turning her eye back to Brigitte, now dancing suggestively at the other end of the room. “Why does she talk like that?”

Sweeney took a draw of his cigarette. “She fancies you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not that. I mean the whole _god_ thing.” They both watched the undulating gyrations of the Loa. “It’s not that I _wouldn’t_ \- ” She sighed and turned away. “It’s complicated.”

Sweeney snorted. He knew what she meant. Things were _way_ too complicated right now for fucking around, especially with Brigitte. There was him thinkin’ this War Goddess was one of the frigid ones.

“The whole Immortan thing,” she went on. “Why does she keep saying that? I don’t like it. I never wanted to be Immortan. The thought of it – _ugh_. Anyway, they _don’t_ call me that anymore. I don’t allow it.”

“Eh, sometimes people get made into gods without meanin’ to. I’d say the best ones don’t ever go lookin’ for it at all. They just have a good story. A bit of killin’ helps too. A bit o’blood.”

And she did have one hell of a story. It was a shame Ibis wasn’t around to scribble it down.

“And they can _be_ killed?”

“Yes they can be fuckin’ killed,” he retorted. This fuckin’ woman was fixated on killin’ gods. “Sure, didn’t you do it already? Though I doubt that fella was really a god. Sounded like a prick, sure enough, but prob’ly not a god. No, they can definitely be killed. Not three days ago, that old Zorya got her end with a bullet. Dead as you’d like.” Sweeney took a slug of whiskey with a faraway look. “Nah – we might have a few extra tricks up our sleeve but, catch us unawares, and we’re as dead as the rest o’ them.”

The war-woman looked down at the evening revellers. “I thought it would’ve been more different, somehow. The Before time. I mean, the _buildings_ look different, the people look different, but they’re all playing the same game.”

“They always do.”

“Is that why you aren’t bothered about what I told you? About the Fall?”

Sweeney shrugged. “Things change. And they change again. I’ve seen a lot of Before times and didn’t know it until after. I find it’s simpler to just worry about where the next drink’s comin’ from."

And, at a sign from the door, he got his feet under him. "Speakin’ of which, supper’s ready! Good man yourself, Baron, I’ll come here again!"

*

“No. I shouldn’t." She held up a detaining hand as Samedi made to spoon out some of his killer jambalaya.

“What’s up?” Sweeney asked, forkful paused on the way to its destination. “Ohhh. You don’t need to worry ‘bout that. They’re not Fae. They won’t keep you here if you eat their food.”

She barked a laugh that skated the borders of hysterical. “It’s not that. Really it’s not. This looks – smells – mothers, it smells amazing, but we _don’t have this kind of food_ where I’m from. I can’t risk it – I can’t let myself _like_ it. You understand?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. Fuck, Samedi’s jambalaya was something to miss in feckin’ - _Wisconsin_ , let alone some desert wasteland where they probably only had old boots to eat.

“Well, what _can_ you eat?” Samedi asked, his chef’s sensibility torn between being offended at his food being refused and smug that it was because it was too good. Plus, he was probably rising to the challenge of creating some post-apocalyptic feast.

“Greens. Salt broth. Bean paste. Bit of dried fruit sometimes.” She must’ve seen the look on their faces. “We’re the lucky ones. We have water to grow food. _Pfft_ , you should see what they serve up in Gas Town. Actually, best if you didn't.”

“Gimme five minutes, I’ll rustle you up something _real_ fine! But not _too_ fine!” Samedi declared with a grin and strode off in full get-outta-my-way mode.

Sweeney grabbed his bowl and shuffled his butt up the bench, to get that fine-smelling stuff out from under her nose. He wasn't a monster, even if Her Future-Warlordness had probably gone and put the kibosh on any prospect of dessert.

*

“So, Furiosa. Tell me - if you could take anything back with you, what would it be?” asked Brigitte, lighting her post-prandial cigar.

“Seeds,” the war-woman replied without a moment’s hesitation. “Things that’ll grow without much water. _Lots_ of sun. Way more than here. You have _clouds_.”

Brigitte waved her cigar at the Baron. “Baby, you should run down to Johnny Appleseed’s and see what you can get for our guest here. I’d ask the leprechaun but he’d prob’ly get a piano land on his head or somethin’ the moment he stepped out the door.”

Sweeney shivered. Nope. No way he was going out there when his coin was god knows where. _When_ , even. Not even to give the war-woman a tour of the town.

“Oh - can I go? If you have somewhere that trades seeds, I’ve _got_ to see it. That would be just - ” she trailed off with a faint suggestion of emotion in her faraway look.

Brigitte smiled broadly. “How ‘bout you and me go first thing tomorrow? We got time. You can meet Johnny. I’m guessing you two might just hit it off.”

“Yes. I’d like that,” the war-woman nodded, taking a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Sweeney chuckled, despite himself. Looks like if anything got Brigitte laid, it’d be that.


	4. Chapter 4

“Well. This is different,” Laura muttered as she wandered unsteadily through the crowd.

A vivid memory hit her - of her old gymnastics days - something she hadn’t thought about in years. She felt exactly like she’d had landed badly, struggling to regain her balance and look perfectly poised at the same time. Which was weird, because she’d just been standing at a junk stall. As opposed to, say, doing double somersaults.

Her head was buzzing uncomfortably, and she resisted the urge to wiggle her finger in her ear. She avoided probing orifices these days, for good reason.

She was no longer squeezing between the singing and dancing drunks of Bourbon Street. The horns no longer blared their joyous racket. There were decidedly fewer sequins.

It was just as bustling, but the festival air was definitely gone. This place had the feel of serious business. The people looked different. Wherever the hell she was, they were well ahead of the fashion curve. Folks looked _eccentric_ , even by Mardi Gras standards. There had been occasions – for example when Sweeney had let rip one of his epic farts in the ice cream truck – that she’d thanked her lucky coin that she no longer had a sense of smell. The look of this place, these people – she knew the smells would be an olfactory assault that she happily did _not_ have to deal with. These people looked pretty fucking rancid.

So why wasn’t she freaking out? That was a good question. Well, frankly, it’d been an unusual few weeks and her panic threshold was considerably lower than it used to be. She’d dug herself out of her own grave and things hadn’t gotten significantly more normal after that. The terrifying, the otherworldly, the just plain disgusting – this was the world she lived in now, apparently. She was surprised by how much it seemed to agree with her.

But, fuck, it was _hot_. She wasn't sure she could feel it, but the heat haze coming off every surface was unmistakeable. New Orleans was sticky and humid, but _here_ it seemed like every drop of moisture had been baked out of the air. She wouldn’t decay here, but she would dessicate. Laura wondered which would be worse. At least she didn’t sweat anymore.

And therein lay the problem. _Presumably_ she was no longer anywhere near Sweeney or, more importantly, the resurrection specialist he called a friend. She could be in a spot of trouble here, if she couldn’t find her way back.

How had she got here? God knew. Probably literally. It had something to do with that rusty cogwheel, she knew that much. She’d touched it and BOOM, she was here in this dusty probably-smelly place which, for some reason, seemed to be full of Australians. Or were they English? She could never tell the difference.

“Well, what do we have here?” a voice leered behind her. Laura rolled her eyes. _Are you fucking kidding me? Do people actually say that?_

“That, I would say, is a fine-lookin’ breeder right there,” chuckled another mouth-breather.

“I’m a what now?” she turned and looked at the pair of them incredulously. And then the sun was blocked out by an eclipse in the form of the biggest person she’d ever seen. Take three of the biggest posers in Shadow’s gym, squish them together and you still wouldn’t be there.

“How ‘bout you come with us, miss? We’ll look after you real good - ” the biggest asshole rumbled, reaching out with a massive hand to grasp her shoulder.

“Seriously, guys, you _really_ don’t wanna go there,” she knocked his hand aside and took a step back, colliding with some other asshole who attempted to cop a feel.

_Great, they’re gonna go there. Fine, don’t say I didn’t warn you._

As the hulk loomed, she looked up at him, smiled sweetly and tapped him - very lightly - on the shin with her boot. The sound he made was surprisingly high-pitched for a man of his scale and he crumpled to the ground clutching at the jagged bone sticking out of his leg. His friend tried to grapple her from behind and got two dislocated shoulders for his trouble. The third man she’d reasoned with by holding him up by his scrotum until he cried.

Thankfully their friends elected to harass someone else instead, and it didn’t escalate into a literal bloodbath. Laura was glad not to have to walk around this strange place looking like Sissy Spacek’s stunt double. It’d taken her ages to get all that blood out of her hair last time.

She shook herself to get rid of the the feeling of - _ugh._

_Well, that was annoying._

*

She was dead – she couldn’t feel heat or cold – she didn’t even need to _breathe_. But she’d been alive for twenty-seven long, long years and the press of people and the noise of the place had her panicking in a way that had nothing to do with chemicals.

So, when she’d managed to squeeze her way out of the crowd, she bolted. The car - she would’ve seen it coming if it hadn’t been driven by a maniac. 

But the car had already braked and swerved and _flipped_ before she’d had time to register it. It fetched up, roof-side down, in a pile of sand and old junk.

“Oh fuck,” she groaned, feeling guilty that someone had totalled their car because she wasn’t entirely looking where she was going, even if that person was clearly some kind of asshole who goth-pimped their car and couldn’t drive for shit. She marched over and squatted down, got her fingers under the chassis and _heaved._

The car righted itself with a thud and a creak and the dust billowed round with a _whooomph_. She peered inside the grimy window to see if the driver was killed or what. A face stared back at her, wide-eyed and thoroughly freaked-out. Probably in shock or something. She tried the door and it uncaught but wouldn’t open so she carefully unbent the bits that needed to be unbent and it swung open easily enough. It didn’t come away in her hand so she figured it was still roadworthy, at least for local standards.

The driver was a man, the passengers a leathery old woman and a spooky-eyed kid. Probably what passed for a family outing in these parts.

A quick glance convinced Laura that they weren’t much hurt, just shook up and pretty spooked. By _her_ , too, by the way they stared at her all wide-eyed and panicky-looking.

She backed off a few paces and tried to look unthreatening.

That did have some effect – the man unfroze with a jolt, fumbled with his keys and tried to start the engine. After a few false starts it turned over.

Realising almost too late that she needed answers and she did not want to look for them back _there_ , Laura darted in front of the car, palms down on the hood and _gripped_. The wheels spun and hummed but that car was going nowhere. She watched him huff and grumble and swear but finally he stopped trying.

She gave a little wave and a smile and tried to look approachable. “Hey! Can you help me? I’m kinda lost.”

 _I mean, technically they owe me a favour_ , she thought.

A pause. They looked like they were conferring.

Her smile widened as the car door clicked open, and the man slowly emerged.


	5. Chapter 5

Just her luck. She meets the one hot guy in town and he turns out to be a twitchy meth-head. He looked like he was on the point of jumping out of his skin. Well, that would explain the driving. No wonder. This place would turn anyone to drugs.

She regarded him for a moment, as he alternated between eyeing her and the hand-sized indentations on the hood of his car.

“Look, dude, seriously," she began, defensively. " I did you a favour there. Look at you. You’re far too high to be driving. You all gotta get a cab or something. Also - you could have killed me just then, don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Just then the other two joined him. The old woman peered at her like someone rubbernecking at a ten-car pile-up. The kid? She took one look at Laura and disappeared, whimpering, behind the car. Laura knew she didn’t have much of an affinity with kids, but that was a bit much, she thought.

“What’s up with her?” she asked the company in general. The two of them shared a look of surprise and the man spoke for the first time. She’d been beginning to wonder if he could actually speak.

“I saw you – before,” he spoke in a gravelly mumble she had to strain to follow. “In the market. I don’t know you. What ghost are you?”

“What _kind_ of ghost are you, more like?” the old woman raised her eyebrows and wheezed a laugh. “Heh, wish I could do that car-flipping trick. You can just count yourself lucky I can't, boy.”

“She’s not _alive!_ ” the kid wailed. “Maaaax – “

“Yes, but that’s not important right now,” Laura snapped, her patience wearing thin. “I need you to give me a lift to New Orleans.”

*

She was relieved that they’d accepted quite early on that she wasn’t going to go around biting people and eating them, spreading a deadly zombie plague. It wasn’t something that had occurred to her, presumably because she was a magic-coin kind of zombie, not the contagious kind.

Laura privately doubted anyone would notice if she did.

The old woman - dead too, apparently, and who was Laura to judge these days? - was muttering to herself, “People don’t just appear out of nowhere. And disappear into thin air. That’s not something that happens. Not if you’re in your right mind, anyway.”

“All I know is - one second I was in New Orleans, next I was in _that_ shithole.” Laura pointed with her thumb to the corrugated iron fence. “You got some real assholes in there. And, yes, appearing and disappearing _is_ something that happens - once you start hanging out with the wrong people.”

“Where?” the man asked, snapping out of his crinkly-browed stupor. “ _Where_ did you come from?”

“New Orleans,” she repeated with a sigh. “Louisiana.” As he continued to look blank, she used her best talking-to-the-hard-of-thinking voice, “In – the States? America? You heard of it?”

“Yeah I’ve _heard_ of it,” he made a face, “but - ”

“So where’s _here?_ ” she interrupted.

He nodded to the shitty town. “That’s Bartertown.”

Laura sighed. _Super helpful_. _Okay, just walk him through the process._ “Can you tell me what's the nearest city to here? Make it a big one or we’ll be here all day.”

“A big one?”

“As big a one as you can think of.”

He looked around and thought for a moment. “Well, nearest used to be Melbourne - ”

“ _Melbourne?_ ” Laura thought for a moment. “Melbourne, not - like - ? Oh my god, is _that_ why everyone sounds Australian?”

Well, that’s pretty cool. She’d always wanted to travel.

She paused. “Wait. What do you mean it _used_ to be Melbourne?”

*

“What’s your name, girl?” the old woman asked, suspiciously.

“Laura Moon - - McCabe.”

“Huh. Sounds like a Before-time name, that.”

Laura shrugged. “It’s Irish. McCabe is, anyway.” She had no idea where Shadow’s mom was from. He’d just said they moved around a lot. She’d kind of envied him for that.

“And you just landed here? All sudden-like? Just outta nowhere?” the old woman asked, as if she was going to suddenly remember that she’d actually took a cab here after all. And it wasn't something Laura felt she could really elaborate on. She didn’t know how to explain what it was like being in one place one moment and somewhere completely different the next. There hadn’t even been any sense of movement, not like the hoard, where she’d _felt_ the coins and things fly past.

The old woman and the man shared a _look_. Like they were processing something relevant to them, rather than deciding that she was some crazy person. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“Maaaaax - ” the kid wailed again, from behind the old woman. Laura hoped she wasn’t going to freak out again. Fucking kids. But no – one glance showed that she was bubbling over with excitement. Dangerously pants-wetting levels of excitement. Some change. Again, fucking kids.

Having got the man’s attention, she pointed a grubby finger at Laura and whispered very audibly, “Max! - it’s Marty McFly!”

Laura blinked. What.

No.

Fuck _off._

*

For the last few weeks, she felt like she’d been carrying a sign that read ‘Laura Moon, Cheating Revenant, Feel Free to Judge Me’.

Maybe now she should actually get some business cards printed.

Laura Moon _nee_ McCabe, Time-Traveller. That sounded a lot better.

But, of all the places she would’ve chosen, it wouldn’t have been here. Was this the _future?_ It really sucked. And she hadn’t seen a single koala or kangaroo or anything. Even a fucking funnelweb spider would’ve done. Oh well, another illusion shattered.

“What _happened_ here?” she’d asked.

It appeared to be a pretty big question for Max the Meth-Head and the old woman – Keeper of the Seeds, her name was – and it sparked a degree of discussion between them. The old woman doing ninety-five percent of the talking, necessarily. Oil Wars, Water Wars, they were undisputed fact but both of them had their own opinions of _why_.

When Laura interrupted to ask, indignantly, if _gods_ were involved, the Keeper launched into a treatise on religion and war from a feminist perspective. And when Laura explained that, no - what she was really asking _was_ , had there been an actual war between walking, talking ancient _gods_ and their modern counterparts, the meth-head and the ghost looked at her like _she_ was crazy. Fine. It hardly mattered anyway. She would worry about that when she got back.

She’d _better_ get back. These people were very interesting and all, but she found herself tiring of them and wondering what Sweeney was getting up to without her. Ugh, they’d been _so close_ to get this stupid fucking situation sorted out. She watched the sun drop behind some craggy rocks on the horizon. She should have her life back by now. Instead she was here, watching a ghost-kid play with a not-ghost-dog while the man made up some kind of camp. She didn’t know where the old woman was.

If Laura wasn’t so fucking _stressed_ right now, she’d be able to properly appreciate how amazing the stars looked out here. At least no-one was trying to rip her heart out this time. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. These people seemed willing to help her. They even had a plan.

Normally she would distrust their apparent willingness to help, but it seemed her trip here may have been an _exchange_. They had a friend who had disappeared at the market, and they wanted her back. Max had even seen the thing happen, but he’d thought he was seeing things, which was understandable since he did talk to ghosts. He had gotten way less twitchy and wild-eyed once he’d realised his friend might have _actually_ been involuntarily dragged away by mystical forces. Seems they’d had had words just before and he’d thought she was angry enough to have cleared out and left him.

He’d been unwinding himself by degrees ever since and was actually semi-normal now. Occasionally responding to questions, with one-word answers. Quite chatty, for him, by all accounts. The old woman supplied the details, but Laura was interested in crazy-guy's input. She never imagined she’d be giving relationship advice to a not-so-jolly swagman in a future desert but that was just another thing to add to the growing list.

“So why was she mad at you?” she asked.

No reply.

“He keeps buggering off and disappearing for months on end, that’s why,” the old woman grumbled helpfully.

“Oh. That’s fair. Can you stop doing that, do you think?”

It was more of a rhetorical question but, much to her surprise, he spoke –

“Not good at staying. And it’s hard to stay - - there,” he let out a shuddery breath.

The old woman clucked and gave him a sympathetic pat on the hand – her hand went right through his, but it’s the thought that counts – and explained.

“Big place a few clicks that way. The place used to be run by a – a very unpleasant man.” She nodded confidentially at Max and mouthed the word _prisoner_ and, was it _blood bag_? Yikes. “It’s under new management now. Our girl’s in charge, more or less.”

“Oh, wow. So she’s like the queen, or president or something? That’s pretty cool. Big job, though - ”

“I should be there," he nodded, regretfully. "To help.” 

“Well, we can’t help how we’re made,” Laura leaned back on her elbows. “Maybe you could get her a present. I bet that would go a long way. What does she like?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but then resumed their normal furrow. “I already bring them stuff. Salvage. Plants and people and scrap – “

Laura tutted. “You bring _them_ stuff. What can you bring that’s just for _her?_ It makes a big difference, you know.”

“Just for her - huh - ” Max frowned thoughtfully, and didn’t another damn thing for the rest of the night.


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually it must’ve gotten too dark for Max to see what he was doing – whatever it was – and he stopped scratching around in the dirt. He looked around and grabbed a thin groundsheet, laid it with great care over whatever it was he’d drawn in the grit. They watched as he weighed it down with rocks at the corners and looked sternly up at them, with a forbidding wag of a dirty finger.

_Don’t touch this. Don’t walk on it. Don’t go near it._

She’d never had a particular talent with languages, but it’d only taken Laura a few hours to learn Maxese, at beginner-level anyway. It was economical, consisting almost entirely of grunts and gestures, plus she had the old woman to translate any bits she didn’t get. She figured it would get a bit old after a while, but she wouldn’t be around long enough for that hopefully.

“You should sleep. She can keep watch,” the old woman nodded at Laura who opened her mouth to protest. She closed it again though and shrugged. _Whatever._ Keeper was right, she didn’t sleep anymore, had never even tried. It seemed too much like being dead.

 _No_ , she thought, _she would just lay here and look at the stars for a while._ She had only begun to appreciate them earlier and now it felt like she had the whole dome of the sky to herself. Or would have, when the feral stopped fidgeting around. The kid was gone - to bed early or whatever the ghost equivalent was - and even the old woman was fading out

“Thought ghosts would be out and about at night,” Laura mused to herself. “Shows all I know.”

Oh well. _Appreciate the quiet, woman_. She hadn’t had much of that lately, what with Salim’s relentless chatter and all those gods bragging and Shadow’s judgemental silence that almost drowned out the rest. And the leprechaun.

 _It was so quiet. God, how she’d hated that._ Those long lonely nights with just Dummy and the television and her single hard-boiled egg. She could’ve _screamed_ to fill the silence, if it weren’t that the neighbours would probably call the cops.

This silence was different. This wasn’t the kind that suffocated and crushed with loneliness. This was the kind of silence that allowed a person to soar. She could _think_ , for the first time since –

Since she’d took that knife in her hand and used it to kill a god – that moment, Laura seriously began to doubt that it was the love of Shadow that fuelled her.

She’d talked to the old woman earlier. Told her her story, with every bitter representation of how she’d been _murdered_ by the man her husband ran with, how he was being manipulated, _used_ by that old bastard. _Yes_ , she’d cheated. But she was sorry, she _knew_ now – she knew how to value him. He was her own personal sunshine. Why was he being so fucking difficult?

She’d expected recriminations, mainly. The kind she’d got from Sweeney. Or maybe a little sympathy, what with having been _murdered_ and all.

In a way she got both. The old woman looked at her with pitying disdain.

“Fucking hell, girl – why’d you go and tie to a man who _bored_ you? Recipe for disaster, that. You’re not much to write home about, but you’re better than that. For his sake, if not your own. Pfft.”

Laura knew she had made a lot of terrible life choices, but she hadn’t ranked Shadow as one of them. Not really, when she had so many others to choose from. She hadn’t expected a total stranger, a fucking ghost no less, to jump all over that one with withering scorn.

She hadn’t known what to say to that, other than ‘ _Whatever‘_.

But Laura figured things were different in the future, that people didn’t get married to escape the crushing loneliness of disappointed suburban life. This was a future of warlords with harems, of nomadic bands of biker women armed to the teeth –

People probably didn’t pair off at all anymore. Probably just fucked whoever they wanted to and tried not to die. Sounded like a refreshing change, in many ways. That’s probably how gods did it.

But the conversation had turned towards the crazy guy drawing pictures in the dirt. And how he was less crazy when their president-queen friend was around. They’d had some adventures, by the sound of it, and were making sheep eyes at each other - Keeper’s phrase – almost immediately once they were done trying to kill each other.

Cute.

“Well, hope he doesn’t _bore_ her,” Laura sniffed disdainfully, a mild dig at Keeper’s earlier scorn.

“No, he doesn’t seem to,” the old woman nodded reflectively. “And he’s got a neat little arse, that always helps.”

“Shadow has an _amazing_ ass,” Laura groaned. It hadn’t stopped her from fucking Robbie.

And, staring up at the constellations she didn’t recognise, Laura realised that she’d never actually missed Shadow while he was inside. She’d missed having someone around. Anyone. Preferably with a nice ass. But there was nothing particular about _him_. Keeper was right. She’d been bored _before_ Shadow, and she’d been bored with him. Laura had been painfully aware of that, but had always thought it was just her way.

But now, for the first time in possibly _ever_ , she was entertained. These adventures since she’d dug herself out of the ground – they were entertaining.

No, that wasn’t strictly true - they’d confused and scared the hell out of her at first. And then Sweeney had come barging in trying to intimidate her and failing hilariously.

From that moment on, the balance had tipped in favour of – fun?

_Jesus._

*

Max and his dog jolted awake just before daylight. It startled the hell out of her, she thought of spiders or snakes – all the reasons she’d imagined it was a bad idea to sleep on the ground in the Australian Outback. But apparently this was a perfectly normal start to the day and, once he’d established he and his dog were alive and not being menaced, he got to making breakfast.

“Morning,” she stretched and yawned out of habit. “When does the market open?”

“There’ll be a - ” he gestured with his hand, a kind of explosion.

Great. Fuck this place. It’s all gotta be about the drama.

Laura got up and walked around, exploring the little camp in the grey dawn light. It must still be cold, the dog’s breath came in excited puffs as it watched Max open a tin of – was that dog food? _Oh, they still have that, huh? That’s not so bad -_

“Morning campers!” the old woman appeared at Laura’s elbow, rubbing her wrinkled hands together briskly. “Are we ready to put everyone back where they belong?”

Laura’s reply froze on her lips as Max took a spoon and began tucking into the tin himself. He noticed her staring and jerked the tin in her direction with an enquiring look.

She shook her head with a brittle smile.

Fuck _yeah_ she was ready.

*

As they waited for the signal for the Bartertown’s opening, Max copied his dust-design onto a bit of fabric and Laura cautiously scratched the dog’s ears. She didn’t need to worry about her allergies anymore and, while it wasn’t exactly a cute smooshable liddle pup by any means, she didn’t want to leave without saying hi.

It wagged its stump of a tail uncertainly and didn’t attempt to eat her fingers.

“Sure you don’t wanna stay here? It gets good and chilly every night and we can keep you underground during the day, keep you fresh. You’d be a right sensation at the Citadel. The girls would love to meet you and the Boys would go completely nuts.”

Laura shook her head. While she was curious to meet the Victoria’s Secret models and the motorbike hippies and their army of skinheads, she needed to get back. She could only imagine what a fucking state Sweeney would be in right now. His coin was halfway around the world and about about fifty years away from him.

And besides. She’d remembered something. It was the stars that did it. The cold and the stars. She hadn’t had _time_ to remember before last night, there’d been too much anger and _talking_ and stuff going on.

When she’d flipped the ice cream van. Something had happened then. There was part that she’d missed. She came to, on the asphalt, and punched Sweeney in the face.

She knew she’d popped her stitches big time and – fuck it was the worst kind of naked – and she’d felt _too vulnerable_. But what had happened in between? She knew she was missing time in between.

Laura had the feeling of being elsewhere fleetingly, there and back again too quickly to have even made an impression on her memory. But, gazing up at the icy stars, she’d remembered where she’d gone.

She’d lost the coin. And she’d got it back again. She could hardly have done it herself and - could he have - ? It was the dumbest thought but that coin had got back into her somehow and there was nobody else there. If she was right - if he’d given her another chance to get her life back - if she really could trust him - well -

Then – no, she really couldn’t stay.

“I think I maybe owe someone a favour,” she murmured to herself. And then the horn blared.

It was time to go.


	7. Chapter 7

Laura followed in Max’s wake as he shouldered his way through the already thick early-morning crowd. While she was perfectly capable of making her own way, she couldn’t deny that it was easier to stay in the wake of the Wastelander – this appeared to be the established term – who was broad and stocky and, importantly, dressed for the occasion. She had drawn the wrong kind of attention yesterday and didn’t need any more complications to delay her plan. _Their_ plan.

Max was searching for the stall that his friend had been at when she had mysteriously disappeared. Where he’d afterwards seen _her_ wandering, looking decidedly out of place in her flowery dress. It may not have been at its freshest – she’d been wearing the fucking thing for days now - but she was still overdressed for this particular party. She let him search because she was fucked if she could tell one of these shitty stalls from another and, besides, she'd been knocked sideways by doing the Quantum Leap or whatever the fuck had happened.

So she stayed in his slipstream and managed to pass unnoticed by the world in general.

But what _was_ that noise? _Doiiing-ding-ding-ding -_ A steel drum? Sounded like it was echoing around her own skull – but that was nothing compared to what came next - 

_Doot-do-doot-dooo-ta-ta-ta_

She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose. Cheesy elevator music was ridiculously out of place here of all places. What even _was_ that? She'd heard it before, it was nagging at her like a hangnail until she remembered. And then it hit her with a shiver down her spine and for a moment was right back there at the casino. That _fucking_ tune – they played it every night ‘til she’d been ready to scream –

She looked up to see that Max had stopped as well, with a confused frown on this face. Not an unusual expression for him, as far as she was aware, but he was rubbing his ears like he could hear it too.

“Buzzing in my ears – " he grumbled, " - fuck _is_ that?“

Didn’t sound like he could hear the tune – perhaps then it was just for _her_ –

“This way! Come on!” she yelled as she elbowed her way through the crowd in the direction she thought it was coming from. As she squeezed through the greasy market-goers, accompanied by music only she could hear that managed to be both twee and distorted at the same time, a thought weaselled its way into her mind and took up residence there.

_Hurry take me to the Mardi Gras –_

And the crowd parted as if by magic.

*

Furiosa strode uncertainly through the morning crowd, flanked by the two flame-haired gods. It was normal to think of them as such now. They both had their own stories, it seemed, and their own identities, but they had this much in common. They were both people made immortal and powerful by their believers. She wasn’t comfortable with that idea, but it seemed to be the way of things and not worth fretting over. Gods and people were not so different apparently. They had their weaknesses and their vanities both.

And now they were going to find another. One who would give her life in the form of green things, blessed tough seeds which would flourish in the fertile soil of the Citadel. She hoped.

That’s if the taint of decades hadn’t made it unfit to support Before-life –

Well, she could but try. Imagine if she went to the Before-time without bringing heirloom seeds back with her? Dag was a terror when she was riled, but Furiosa had a feeling she'd seen nothing yet.

But of course, there was the possibility that none of this was happening at all. Perhaps she'd got sick with a fever, was delirious, was simply imagining this whole thing. Perhaps Max was there, at her bedside.

Or perhaps he wasn’t. The pang of almost physical pain made her gasp. He’d been leaving again, on his way back to the Wastes, to come back again soon, for a given value of soon.

But not now, not likely. She’d been so hostile to him, only yesterday. Her frustration had found a target and Max was it. Such an easy target. It was all the more frustrating that, to all intents and purposes, things were _good_ at the Citadel. Certainly much better than how things _were_. They weren’t any worse off than under Joe, with regards defence and supplies – and what else could she ask?

But – ugh – the sleepless nights with visions of the lost Mothers and the lost Green Place and lost Angharad and her lost Crew. All those betrayed, all those sacrificed. _Had it really been worth it - ?_

No, shut up. She _knew_ it had been worth it. Mothers, how could she even doubt that? But it didn’t _feel_ like it, somehow. The guilt sickened her more than the fever had.

It felt better when Max was there. But then he would leave, just like that, and the nightmares would return.

They had no claim on him. _She_ had no claim on him. And he was still part of them, out there, their outer defence, their scout, their eyes in the Wastes. She just wished she could have him there, at her back, all the time. But she’d ruined that now. She couldn’t expect him to be waiting for her in Bartertown.

_Don’t hope, don’t hope –_

Thus she walked, unseeing, lost in thought until her musing was interrupted. “Here we are, baby - this is Johnny Appleseed’s place.”

Furiosa surveyed the shop-front with its awnings and tables with no small confusion. She was new around here, she knew, but this did _not_ look much like a seed store.

*

 _Fuckin’ hipsters_ , Sweeney thought as he glowered round the bar. _Hope you get splinters in your arse._

Not that he had any objection to getting dragged out of Le Coq Noir to go to a cider barn, but this kind of place just got on his nerves. All the fake-rustic rough wood pallet shite that they expected you to sit on and drink overpriced artisan applejuice. But sure, what else could you expect for a place run by a fucking missionary?

 _Good cider_ , he conceded, taking a swig from his enamelled tin mug with its logo of two bare feet. _Shame about the hipsters._

The place was only just open, but the band were already thrumming away quietly in the corner.

_“Lord, there gooooes Johnny Appleseed - ”_

Sweeney smirked into his mug. What else would it be? He wondered if they’d be playing that song on a loop ‘til closing. But, hopefully, they wouldn’t be here long enough to find out. They couldn’t be souvenir shopping all day – the war woman had an appointment with an old fucker of a trickster god who’d left early with Samedi to open up his stall.

He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but he’d come out so he wouldn’t be left alone fidgeting and fretting in the bar. He had plenty to fret about. If this morning’s plan didn’t come off, he was well and truly fucked. Distraction was worth running the risk of a piano on the head.

_“There’s a lot of souuuuls ain’t drinking from the well, locked in a factory - ”_

He leaned on the bar and tapped his heel against the stool-leg in time to the folky acoustic jangle. The beardy barman nodded a greeting to Brigitte and kept on polishing glasses in the time-honoured style of barfolks everywhere.

“Bit early for you folks, ain’t it?” he observed, eventually.

“Johnny, this is Furiosa,” Brigitte drawled, helping herself to bar snacks. “She’s lookin’ for some seeds to take home. A souvenir, if you like. Whatcha got in that line these days?”

“Got some apples,” he grinned.

“Hah. Don’t you just. But word is you’ve diversified some since then,” Brigitte smirked. “Apples is good, but we were thinkin’ some good tough desert greens. Sorta thing folks could live off for the foreseeable?”

The seed man rubbed his beard and squinted into a tin can he’d fished out of his designer-distressed overalls. He poked about in it for a bit. “Got some hemp here and – let’s see - a fine hardy acacia – cootamudra wattle if I’m not mistaken - that’s sure to get the bees comin’ from miles around.”

Even from where he lounged, Sweeney saw the scepticism all over the war woman’s face. She didn’t say anything but her shake of the head and sigh clearly said, _I fucking doubt it._ It wasn’t lost on old Johnny-boy who looked up at her sharply from his rummaging.

“What?”

_“If you’re after getting the honey, then you don’t go killing all the bees - ”_

“Bees. I – no-one’s seen those in – I don’t know how long,” she huffed and folded her arms. “I mean, we always used brushes. Little brushes to breed the plants? The old ones used to grumble about having to do it ourselves, but - ”

She gave a resigned shrug, with only a hint of defensiveness. Like she was expecting to get the blame for it and had an argument all ready.

Johnny waved a hand dismissively. “Like I say, this’ll bring ’em. Just don’t go driving ‘em _away_ again, that’s all I’m saying.”

_“It’s what the people are saying - ”_

“We’ll try,” the war woman nodded grimly, taking the package.

*

“Y’all ready?” Brigitte asked as she tucked the little bags into her pockets.

“Yeah,” she replied with a half-stunned exhale. This was crazy – she was about to get magically sent back to her own time, her own _hemisphere_ , with her pockets full of precious seeds from the Before time.

_Would Max be there?_

The thought, the worry sickened her more than the idea that she could be stuck here. Probably because _here_ didn’t feel quite real but Max’s absence was crushingly familiar –

“Hey. You gotta stop frettin’ about your man. He ain’t going anywhere. He’s like your own personal moon.”

The leprechaun snorted. Brigitte ignored him and went on.

“You can’t always see him around but here’s out there just kinda - orbiting,” she waved her index finger in a circle.

“Are you reading my mind? Because - ” Furiosa raised her hands and took a step away, unnerved. “ - he’s not my man and I’m not fretting,” she added a little too late.

The leprechaun snorted again. “Wouldn’t worry – she's not a big reader - are ya, Brigid?”

“Fuck you, Sweeney. ‘Least my lips don’t move when I do, unlike _some_ folks round here.”

Furiosa was relieved that the conversation had turned to the usual friendly bickering, rather than what may or may not be on her mind right then.

“Land of saints and scholars, my arse. Load of old shite – made up - fuckin’ grey monks - ” His brow crumpled darkly for a moment, then cleared a little. “Anyway, you’d hardly take _this_ one for a saint, would ya?” he nudged Furiosa and nodded at Brigitte, who pouted at him.

“No. No, you wouldn’t,” Furiosa agreed with an involuntary smirk, then looked away hurriedly as Brigitte raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“There, I see Legba,” Sweeney straightened up and Furiosa turned to look. “It’s time. C’mon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The musical inspiration for this chapter was provided by the very excellent:
> 
> 'Take Me To The Mardi Gras' by Bob James https://youtu.be/Ove38w3ztG4
> 
> and 
> 
> 'Johnny Appleseed' by Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros https://youtu.be/4IbMiqIdeME
> 
> And yes I did play the latter on a loop while I was writing this, which was no great hardship. 
> 
> (notes on Johnny Appleseed, real-life American folk hero - a quick internet search informed me that he mainly planted apples for cider rather than for eating and was a renowned professional scruff, hence the hipster faux-rustic cider barn being the temple of choice in his godlike incarnation)


	8. Chapter 8

The crowd parted as if by magic, and there he was. She had barely glimpsed at him back in New Orleans, but this was definitely the guy. He waved her over as if he’d been expecting her.

Laura had expected a riddle or a test or some other kind of wearisome bullshit and was pleasantly surprised when the man pointed a stick at the very item that had brought her here. She recognised it no problem but, if she’d had to pick it out from the litter of stuff arrayed on his table – well, she was very glad not to have to. Who knows _where_ she would’ve ended up.

_He’d better not be fucking with her_

She stretched out her hand, hesitated and cast him a warning glance. The man – old? young? she couldn’t tell – his only response was to nod at the rusty cogwheel impatiently, as if there was someplace else he needed to be.

She looked back at Max for a second, who watched from a distance. Seeing her look over, he made as if to give her a thumbs up, but hastily folded his arms across his chest and managed to look even more anxious.

She made a _here goes nothing_ face at him and crossed her fingers.

It was really aggravating that deep and calming breaths were no longer an option for her. Well, all the more reason to get on with it.

She reached out and very deliberately laid her fingers on the cogwheel.

_Oh fuuuuuckkkkkk - - - -_

*

Furiosa paused for a moment, her hands on her knees, fighting down the urge to hurl. _That was not pleasant –_

She straightened up and scanned the crowd, telling herself not to hope.

Her breath caught in her throat as she saw him. Max. Standing there, as if he’d been expecting her. His eyes widened and, for a moment, she could imagine what he might’ve looked like before – before whatever had happened to break him. He looked young and wide-eyed, and completely overjoyed.

He took two – three – steps forward and stopped. His face clouded uncertainly and Furiosa remembered what she’d said to him before all this had happened. He didn’t know if he would be welcome.

She didn’t hesitate a moment longer.

Crossing the space in a few strides, she stepped up close to him and pressed her forehead to his in the fluid well-remembered motion that had been so long forgotten until Fury Road.

It was like she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe until he said _something_ and this was _Max_ and she would probably be waiting a long while and she almost laughed when he finally took a ragged breath and spoke -

“How – how was Before?”

“Loud. Bright colours, Lots of _gods_ , I dunno - ” she shrugged with a joyful sob that just about passed as a laugh. _Mothers it was good to be back. Who thought ever she’d say that?_

Furiosa pulled away a fraction, just to be able to look at him. He looked intact, to her intense relief. It was ridiculous, but those old stories had been hard to shake from her imagination. At his quizzical look, she blurted it out. “I’m just glad you didn’t get eaten by zombies. Seriously, she didn’t bite you, did she?” she asked, stepping back and looking over him with alarmed concern.

When he choked out a laugh and shook his head instead of looking at her like she was crazy, it finally hit her that _yes, that had happened – she had spent almost twenty four hours with gods and leprechauns and Max had met an actual walking talking corpse_.

“What’s it like, talking to a _dead_ person?” she asked, with horrified curiosity.

When Max twitched and frowned reprovingly at a spot in the air a few inches to Furiosa’s left, she remembered why she really shouldn’t ask him that sort of question. She’d known him long enough to see that he carried his dead around with him in one way or another. She suspected that he talked to them plenty when he was out here alone. She wondered if that was why he needed to escape so often – were his dead demanding his full attention? Anyway, it was _not_ a good question to have asked Max, especially after what'd probably been a stressful day and night.

And then she remembered the apple that she’d snagged from an open box in Johnny Appleseed’s place. She fished it out of her pocket and held it out to him with a knowing smile. “Hey. Brought you something.”

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Apples were a rarity – not even the gardens had more than a few scrawny little sour things. He looked at her with smiling uncertainty and she nodded, putting it into his hand. He didn’t need to be told twice. It was stripped down to the core in under a minute, with occasional offers in her direction, repeated denials on her part and a lot of very happy noises on his. Furiosa briefly wondered if giving an apple to a friend would be worth as much where she'd just come from. She supposed not, since they’d been just lying around unguarded like that.

As Max crunched his way through the core and carefully spat the seeds out into his hand for Dag, she remembered the best gift of all. How could she have forgotten? She leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial undertone. “Guess what else I’ve got? No, I shouldn’t take them out here. I’ll show you in the car.”

She took him by the arm and led him away towards the gate, out of this place, away towards his car – _it’d definitely been in better shape yesterday, what the hell’s he been up to? –_

“Had a little accident," he explained with a grimace, seeing her look. "Bad driving. It’s fine, just needs a few dents hammered out.”

“Well, never mind. This’ll make up for it. Take a look at _these_.” She carefully unfurled a couple of the rolled-up bags from her many pockets and laid them, out of the wind, on the driver’s seat. Max leaned in and stared. He looked up at her wide-eyed and unbelieving.

“So many – how - ?”

“Traded for them.”

He shook his head, uncomprehending. She grinned at the look of perplexity which he wore so well. Gathering up the precious haul and putting it safely away again, she asked, “She told you about the gods?”

Max nodded, with a shrug that spoke volumes. There were enough crazies in the Wasteland, the Dead Wife was just another. It was simpler not to argue with crazies, especially not ones who looked like they wouldn't stay down after they'd been killed.

“Well, these _gods -_ they gave me seeds, in exchange for _belief_. All I have to do is tell their story. And if the seeds grow, we’ll believe in them sure enough.”

When she thought about it, Furiosa wondered why she had taken their word for it. It’s not like they’d done any magic tricks or anything. She just figured, why not?

“So, I’ve got a tale to tell, that’s all," she concluded. "Not a bad trade."

“Start with me?” he asked, swinging into the newly-vacated driver’s seat and nestling down comfortably like he’d happily sit there all day listening to tall tales. Not for the first time that morning, Furiosa felt a warm glow of fondness for this twitchy fool who refused to be driven away by her crankiness. Speaking of which – she had something to say before she tried out her Tell on him.

Furiosa hadn’t got where she was today by apologising. But she'd been unfair and harsh and his hurt look just before the Incident and his uncertainty of a welcome after it was burned on her memory. Besides, there were no witnesses and it was just his word against hers. Her reputation was not at risk, she could assure herself.

“Max – what I said before. I was taking everything out on you.” She was almost pained at his look of surprise. Hadn't he expected her to be a little bit sorry? She sighed. _Goddammit woman, just say it_. “Max, I’m sorry. You can come and go as you please and – I won’t give you a hard time for it. I mean it.”

_If you’re after getting the honey, you don’t go killing the bees -_

She wanted him around, she really did, but only if he was comfortable. And, while it had almost physically hurt her to see how he’d unclenched as they’d driven away from the Citadel yesterday – she knew she’d be going back alone, that’s why her bike was tied on the back – she did _not_ want to keep him there against his will.

She looked up as Max spoke, like a man who'd been trying to get a word in.

“About that – wanted to ask you a favour. The garages – can I - ? I’ve got a – here – no, wait – it’s actually kind of a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

He huffed and looked irritated at himself for saying that much. But if he had a project that needed the garages – well, she could see no downsides. It was just a matter of not sounding _too_ happy about it in case he got spooked.

“Sure. Garage space? Parts? Yeah, take what you need,” she shrugged, trying to look indifferent. Max was visibly vibrating in the driver’s seat with whatever vision he had in his mind – or drawn in blood, probably, on a rag – and Furiosa was suddenly impatient to get both of them back to the Citadel.

She just needed to get her bike from where she’d hidden it and they could get moving. She had some seeds to deliver, and she probably ought to put some thought into this Tell of Leprechauns, Ghede Loa and Apple-Gods before she assembled their future believers. Furiosa shook her head and chuckled quietly at the idea. It had been a bit of a master-stroke, the more she thought about it. That Brigitte - she could see when an opportunity was staring her in the face. In exchange for a stake in the future, she had given the Citadel what it most needed to survive. She had got herself a missionary, a priestess even, in Furiosa, in exchange for seeds and growth and food for generations. Or, to put it more simply, if you feed them, they will believe in you.

After all, Gods and humans alike _would_ strive for survival, however they could. She just wondered what form they would take - Sweeney and Brigitte and the Baron and Johnny Appleseed and the trickster Legba - when they were reborn in the After-Time. And they’d _better_ not cause trouble. They’d answer to her if they did.

*

Lying in the gutter and seeing stars, Laura declared to the universe in general: “I am _not_ doing that again!" Plus, that fucking idiot asshole of a Sweeney had somehow knocked her clean over in an attempt to catch her before she fell. And, as she looked up at him grinning down at her, she was almost certain he’d done it on purpose. Well, at least _she_ wasn’t falling-over drunk. She was just a little giddy on account of all the fucking _time-travelling_ she’d been doing.

She glared at him and waved a hand pointedly. “Well – don’t just stand there, help me up, Ginger Minge!”

He hauled her to her feet, still grinning, and she sighed happily while trying to maintain an irritated expression. She’d missed the gangly bastard even on the way down to New Orleans and remembering that he’d probably brought her back from the dead on the road had only make her think more fondly of him. Ugh.

If fact, she’d actually quite like to keep him around once she’d got her life back again. Laura only had a sketchy – actually extremely messy – idea of what that would look like. But she figured that Shadow and Sweeney would sort out their differences and the three of them could maybe hang out together now and then for a drink or several. It would be fun.

But the image of the three of them comfortably bickering in a bar booth was barely a flickering illusion. If she looked at it for more than a second, it wavered and disappeared entirely. Reason being, it would be blotted out by Shadow pointing out a fact for which Laura had no comeback. Simply that she had a ‘history’ of fucking his best friend behind his back. A precedent that would probably make him reluctant to get all buddy-buddy with Sweeney, even if he did see sense and take her back.

Not that she would ever consider fucking Sweeney. No – she’d actually come to trust him a little – okay, a lot – and actually enjoy his company. Arguably – and it felt weird to admit it – arguably, they were _friends_. He was actually helping her to get Shadow back, she had to give him credit for that. Plus, the warm-fuzzies were almost managing to counteract the bone-chilling numbness of being dead, which really sucked.

So, anyway, she was pretty glad to see him again, even if he did yeet her into the gutter. He wasn't an _asshole_ asshole, he was just as clumsy as fuck. But she was in high spirits regardless and he was long overdue some piss-taking so, when he’d pulled her to her feet, she’d got right into his face and looked up at him all big-eyed and serious –

“Hey. Can I ask you something? It’s something I've been thinking about a _lot_ since I've been gone - ”

He’d looked ready to bolt and frozen to the spot all at once.

“Just before I came back, when the other woman was here, did you ever - ” she made puppy eyes at him, “ – did you ever say WE’RE GOING TO SEND YOU – BACK TO THE FUTURE! ? Did you? Huh?”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, and then muttered _FUCK_ with all the disgust of a man who had seen his opportunity, and that too late. Sorry buddy, you only get one chance at that sort of thing.

Seeing her hit, she smiled her very sweetest smile. “You don't have to say it - it's good to have me back."

“Fuck you, Dead Wife,” he growled, his face cracking despite his very best efforts.

Seeing his mouth twist into a smirk made her realise that it was almost as fun making him smile as making him utterly incandescent with rage. Which why she added, “So, are you going to take me to meet your resurrection buddies now? Better late than never, huh?”

He stared at her narrowly. “Was – was that - _also_ a joke?”

“Was it funny?”

He huffed a laugh and turned away with a shake of the head. “Oh, you’re just full of it today, aren’t ya?’

“Hey. I’m going to get my life back!” she shrugged.

He took a deep breath and nodded. “With a little bit of luck."

Amen to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and off they go to for a belated rendezvous at Le Coq Noir where things unfold much as they would've done if the Incident had never occurred. 
> 
> (which I like to think explains why Laura is so crushed and angry that things turned out as they did that night)


End file.
